


Storm

by ndannais



Series: Low [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-04 22:21:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4155135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ndannais/pseuds/ndannais
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A snowstorm, an isolated building, and an unexpected reunion. Sort of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to Low - you should read that first.

Napoleon stumbled blindly through the snow. The safe house was nearby, he knew, assuming it hadn't been destroyed. He wasn't even sure if it was still in use, but even without firewood or food, it would still be better than being outside during a blizzard.

Finally, his hands smacked into something solid. Between the thick gloves and his frozen fingers, he couldn't tell immediately if it was the safe house, but a quick check confirmed it was some sort of wall. He hadn't been there in eight years, but he doubted they'd built anything else out there in the middle of nowhere during that time. 

He used the wall to guide him, tripping over deeper snowdrifts until he found something door-shaped. A little more fumbling, and he found the doorknob and pushed, only to find the door locked, something that could only be done from the inside the building he was looking for. Either someone was already using the safe house, or he was in the wrong place.

With a heartfelt sigh, Napoleon pulled off one glove and rummaged around in his pocket. The CIA incendiary material was not as good as the UNCLE kind, but it worked nonetheless. Maybe he'd shove it in the ear of the 'friend' to whom he'd been repaying a favor by coming all the way up here.

"Retired means retired, dammit," he muttered as he stuck the explosive in the lock. A moment later, the lock dissolved. That was new. Perhaps the CIA had gained a few neat tricks since Napoleon had left the spy business. It would be interesting to see what new technology UNCLE had come up with in the last seven years.

He strangled that thought into silence. No matter how many times he told his brain that thoughts of UNCLE were off-limits, it insisted on bringing them up. And this safe house would not help. The last time he'd hidden out here....

He shoved his way in the door, slamming it behind him and telling those thoughts, especially the ones of Illya, to stay outside. They refused, of course, and as he stripped off layers of outdoor clothing, he surveyed the room, his mind supplying images he'd rather forget.

He realized someone was, in fact, in the one-room cabin, as quilts on the double bed in the corner stirred. Napoleon moved forward to give some sort of explanation when he found himself faced with an updated UNCLE special. The gun, however, was nowhere near the shock that the owner turned out to be. White-blond hair and blue eyes that were, as he'd suspected, much bluer than the color his memories supplied greeted him with the words, "Who are you and what are you doing here?"

His mind busy searching for the words to say to Illya after all this time, it took a moment for the question to sink in. "Who...?" Being treated as a complete stranger by someone so familiar was the last thing he'd have expected. How could Illya have forgotten him? Unless....

There was something off about Illya's usual cold stare. Napoleon took two steps to the right, and the gun followed a fraction of a second before the eyes did as well. The suspicion turned into a sinking lead weight in his stomach as Napoleon waved one hand. Illya did not react. Napoleon reached out carefully, his hand where it could grasp the gun out of Illya's with no problem, his fingers fractions of an inch away from the barrel, and still there was no reaction. 

Now he knew something was definitetly wrong. Illya would never let an unknown person get that close to his gun. And even if Napoleon spoke in Norwegian, Illya would still recognize him on sight. There was only one conclusion that made sense. Illya was blind. Or at least he was having some kind of problem with his eyes, enough that he couldn't even distinguish movement. Whatever it was, he couldn't see Napoleon. Hear, yes. See, no.

"I, uh, I'm John Allen," Napoleon said, wincing at the southern accent. It still sounded fake to his own ears, even after two weeks of using it as his cover, but Illya didn't seem to notice.

Something flickered in Illya's eyes, but the gun held steady. "What are you doing here, John Allen?"

"I was caught in the storm and ran into this place. Literally. Do you think maybe you could put that gun down?"

Illya thought for a moment, then rose from the bed, gun level with Napoleon's chest. "You won't mind if I check you for weapons, first, will you? After all, if you just 'ran into the building,' you've nothing to hide, yes?"

"Of course. " Napoleon decided the bit of luck that had cost him his gun several hours ago wasn't all bad. Explaining that gun wouldn't have been easy.

No, easy would have been to drop the accent and reveal who he was. No more gun, no more suspicion. Illya might hate him for what he'd done, but he would still trust him in everything else.

Yet he couldn't bring himself to confess. To spend the night in that small--and rapidly growing smaller--room with the hurt and anger he knew would surface once Illya knew who he was would be far worse than a pleasant, if guarded evening as strangers. Especially in that particular room, where they'd first--

Napoleon pushed those thoughts away again, a rather difficult task with Illya's hand performing the most thorough search he'd ever endured. His traitorous body insisted on responding to Illya's touch, but if Illya noticed, he gave no outward sign. It was a relief when Illya finished and stepped back, satisfied enough to return the gun carefully to the bed, placing it beneath the pillow as he sat down. "My apologies," he said, tilting his head in an achingly familiar manner. "I am having difficulties with my sight, and I cannot afford to be careless."

"I gathered that much," Napoleon said, shrugging his coat off and placing it on the back of a chair. "What happened to your eyes?"

"Someone decided I would be a good candidate for a drug experiment."

"Did it occur to you to refuse?"

A ghost of a smile crossed Illya's face. "They were rather insistent."

"And yet you're here alone."

"Eventually I was more insistent."

Napoleon laughed. He'd bet money the 'insistent' party was Thrush. And that they were now dead. "So how did you end up here?"

"I was heading back towards the ski lodge to call for assistance."

They sent you out without a partner? It was on the tip of Napoleon's tongue to ask, but years of training helped him to remember that things were not as they used to be. He would have to be careful. It was so familiar--Illya, a mission, the two of them alone together....

Only they were not together. And Illya didn't know who Napoleon was. The accent had fooled him, which was surprising, but it had been seven years since they'd seen each other, and Napoleon would be the last person Illya would expect to see here of all places.

"And ran into this building?" Napoleon asked finally.

"Something like that. Though I could have sworn I locked the door."

There was a slight challenge in Illya's voice. "Must've been a mistake. Maybe I should double check the lock." Napoleon pretended to check the door, making the appropriate sounds with the knob, then propped a chair from the table under it. "I've blocked it to be sure," he said, explaining the scraping sounds he knew would make Illya curious.

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it." Napoleon hugged himself, rubbing his arms with his hands to warm up. "It's cold in here, isn't it?"

Illya nodded. "Yes. I can shoot blindfolded if necessary, but I was rather afraid to try my fire-building skills when I could not see. It seemed unwise to burn down my only shelter."

"I'd say so," Napoleon agreed, shaking his head. He'd missed the Russian's odd sense of humor. "There's wood by the fire. I'll see if I can't find some matches and warm the place up a bit. My warm, southern blood isn't used to this cold."

"I would imagine. How exactly did you end up here?"

Napoleon located the matches on the mantle and began stacking wood inside the fireplace. "I came up here for some cross-country skiing. A friend of mine recommended the place. I got stuck out here when the storm hit."

"Thinking of ending your friendship after this?"

"The jury's still out on that one," Napoleon said, realizing it was true. He wasn't sure whether to thank his friend or strangle him at the moment. "Have you eaten?"

Illya shook his head as he stood. "I was resting and trying to stay warm when you arrived."

"Well, why don't you sit down by the fire and I'll see about some food."

"I can help."

Napoleon waved him off. "Nonsense--I'm sorry, what did you say your name was?"

"I didn't," he quipped. "It's Illya."

"Illya." He winced at the unfamiliar pronunciation on his tongue. When they'd first been partnered, Napoleon had deliberately mispronounced the name just to provoke some sort of reaction out of the unflappable Russian. Once they'd become friends, he'd continued to pronounce it that way. It was the closest he'd ever get to a pet name for anyone, some small way to distinguish his relationship with Illya from the rest of the world. Forcing the name out correctly hurt more than he would've expected.

With a frown, Illya found the hearth and sat down. "Hearing you say my name sounds peculiar."

Napoleon gave him a sharp glance. "Must be the accent," he said, turning towards the kitchen."

"Perhaps. Where did you say you were from again?"

"I didn't," Napoleon mimicked. "Georgia. Savannah, to be exact." It was an area he was fairly certain Illya had not visited, at least not before they'd gone their separate ways.

"I've never been there," Illya confirmed. "How long have you lived there?"

Pot in hand, Napoleon searched for a can opener. "All my life. I'm a sixth generation Savannah resident, in fact."

"I've heard it's very nice."

"Gorgeous." Napoleon frowned at the contents of the cabinet. "I'm afraid your dinner choices are limited. Would you like chicken soup or tomato soup?"

"Under the circumstances, I suppose the tomato soup would be easier to eat."

Napoleon mentally kicked himself. "Sorry pa...l." Odd how easily partner tried to roll off his tongue after all these years. "Tomato it is."

While Napoleon heated soup on the gas stove, Illya sat silently by the fire, staring out at nothing, eyes unfocused. Napoleon tried not to think too much about it, even though part of him wanted nothing more than to get every last detail of what had happened out of the stubborn Russian. Even though Illya said it was temporary, that could be wishful thinking, or an outright lie to mislead a stranger into thinking Illya was not as helpless as he seemed.

Swallowing the sudden lump in his throat, Napoleon stirred the soup. Even if their paths never crossed again, the thought of Illya out there alone and blind hurt. Of course, he was assuming Illya was still alone. It had been a long time.

"Soup's ready," Napoleon said, pouring it into two mugs. He placed the mugs on the small table and found some crackers in the cabinet to put with them.

As Illya carefully made his way to the table, Napoleon forced himself not to help. He knew it would not be appreciated. "So," Napoleon said once they were seated and eating. "You have a wife and kids?"

Illya shook his head. "I've found relationships don't really agree with me." Napoleon ignored the pain he felt at that statement. "Are you married?"

"Not me. I guess I'm not the relationship type either. I always seem to mess it up." 

The rest of their meal was consumed in silence, the whole situation like a strange farce of the past to Napoleon. When the soup was finished, Napoleon cleared away the empty mugs. He'd unearthed a slightly used bottle of scotch in the cabinet earlier; now, he poured two healthy glasses of the liquid. "Here," he said, as he put the glass down so it touched Illya's hand, making it easy for him to find. "Not the best scotch in the world, but it'll do."

"Beggars can't be choosers." Illya held the glass up. "Cheers," he said before he took a long swallow."

"Cheers," Napoleon replied, lifting his own glass out of habit before he realized Illya couldn't see him. He drank half the glass in one gulp. Alcohol seemed the best way to get through the coming night.

Two glasses later, Illya's yawns were getting closer together. Napoleon figured the Russian had maybe fifteen minutes before he passed out on the table. It was a state Illya didn't allow himself to get into often, and when he did, it was usually because he was relatively safe in letting down his guard.

Could he have recognized Napoleon and simply found it easier to play along? Napoleon dismissed that thought. As much as he might wish to believe Illya should know him anywhere, his former partner was never less than straightforward, at least when it came to dealing with Napoleon. Illya probably would've thrown him out in the snow if he'd realized who he was.

Perhaps Illya was feeling the after effects of the drug that had blinded him. Whatever the cause, it was probably best if they turned in for the night. "I don't know about you, Illya, but I'm ready for a good sleep. Fighting a blizzard is tiring."

"Indeed it is." Illya drank the last of his scotch and stood, feeling his way over to the bed. "I hope you don't mind if I take the right side," he said, sitting down on the bed.

Napoleon blinked. He'd counted on having enough trouble sleeping in the same room. He hadn't counted on the same bed. "Oh, I can sleep on the floor."

"Nonsense. The floor is cold and bound to get colder as the fire dies. And the bed is big enough."

And you can keep me trapped against the wall, Napoleon realized. He'd have to climb over Illya to do anything. It was an effective way of sleeping in a room with someone you weren't quite sure of. He had a feeling Illya would just insist if he continued to protest.

"Well, the floor would be cold, so...thank you."

As Napoleon crawled over to the left side of the bed, he could smell Illya clearly. The smell invaded the entire bed, inescapable and nearly unbearable. Napoleon sighed and resigned himself to a long night of hell.

***

He must be in hell, because he was surrounded by heat. Flames licked at various parts of him, unable to burn his clothes, but scorching in the heat they left in their wake.

He realized Illya was there with him, close, so close, holding him, chasing the flames with his fingers as he tried to get even closer. Napoleon could feel himself responding to the touch, to the feel of Illya's hardness rubbing against his own. His mouth opened for Illya, the flames seemingly a part of the Russian, as his tongue plunged inside, burning Napoleon's mouth in the sweetest torture.

If this was hell, he could stay for a while. The dream was better than reality, and he clung to it, to Illya's body, which felt more solid and more real than any of the countless dreams he'd had like this in the past.

He reached down, his hand dipping below Illya's waistband, searching for the hard heat there. This, too, felt better than a normal dream, the smell of Illya fuelling the pleasure he felt as he stroked hard, determined to give the dream Illya what he could no longer give the real one.

A sharp pain on his lip jolted him somewhat awake, followed immediately by the sinking realization that the dream had felt so real because it was real. Illya was kissing him--had, in fact, bitten his lip as he thrust into Napoleon's hand. It felt wrong, and yet so right. He knew he should stop, and yet he couldn't, wanting so much to give Illya this comfort and release.

Moments later, Illya cried out as he spent himself into Napoleon's hand. The sight of Illya's face, the feel of him trembling with passion, was enough to send Napoleon over the short edge he'd been teetering on, and he found his own release.

When he was aware of his surroundings again, Napoleon realized Illya had curled up against him, his head on Napoleon's shoulder. Deciding he could sort that out in the morning, right after he explained who he really was, Napoleon settled against Illya's warmth. 

As he drifted off to sleep, he thought he heard one single word, a mere sigh against his ear.

"Napoleon."

***

Bright sunlight greeted Napoleon when he woke, a stark contrast to the coldness of the room. The storm must be over. He felt beside him, but the bed was cold and empty. He sat up, looking around, but he knew what he would find.

Illya was gone.  
___  
END


End file.
